


Can't Hold On

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Fights, Fire, Kidnapped Lydia, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder, Nemeton, Sexy Times, Temporary Character Death, Thunder and Lightning, Werewolf Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:54:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles reaches the last stretch of the first floor and finally hears something. </p><p>He begins jogging toward the sound, believing he'll finally get some answers, if he finds the one behind this.</p><p>Naturally, that's when the cloaked figure steps out of nowhere and knocks him flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. I've been sick, but I'm recovering and I managed to eek a chapter out for you guys. It's a short one. Hope to get more up soon! Just have to find that perfect balance of drugged enough to fend off the sick, but not too drugged to operate a keyboard...

Miss Blake is nice. She applied for a position at the school a week ago, expecting to get a job offer for next semester if anything. When she called to inquire about any substitute work in the meantime, the admin office mentioned a parent's inquiry about a private home-tutor for an invalid student. She gladly accepted the information and followed up with a call to the Sheriff, expressing interest in the position. The Sheriff asked if she could start today.  

Ostensibly, she could. She and Stiles get started right away. They work on English (her usual subject) and chemistry. She's very patient and teaches with a careful concern toward Stiles' vision impairment. She even reads all of the practice questions aloud and checks over each of the answers Stiles' blindly types up for errors.

Plans are made for Miss Blake to come over every afternoon, including weekends (thanks, Dad), for five hours. Supposedly it's to spread Stiles' schoolwork out over the week so he can still get plenty of rest. Stiles thinks it's partially because his father wants him home as much as possible.

Miss Blake leaves at three o'clock, a little earlier than what will be normal, but she expresses concern over Stiles' stamina since he only just got out of the hospital this morning. After she departs with a cheery goodbye, Stiles appropriates Derek's eyesight again and dives into his research. As well-meaning as their schedule is, there will be no rest for the teen anytime soon. While Stiles sits stooped over his laptop, eyes ablaze, Derek lays on Stiles' bed, texting Erica and Boyd to see how their first day back went, and Peter, Cora, and Isaac for reports on anything unusual.

Stiles hates how high on alert everyone is. There are threats coming in at all angles right now and they're completely helpless to stop any of them. He desperately continues his search for something that will help them.

Derek is obviously growing antsier by the second as he texts each of his pack members. Stiles eventually tells him to just go see them, assuring him that Mr. Argent and the Sheriff will keep an eye on him. Derek begrudgingly goes, hesitant to be away from Stiles, as it seems one of them always gets attacked, yet itching to be with his betas. Stiles thinks it's good for all of them if Derek gets some quality Alpha time in with the pack. The pack apparently still doesn't include Scott, because he shows up after Derek leaves, Allison in tow because her dad is there.

The Sheriff heads in to work shortly thereafter, assured of Stiles' safety in the presence of one werewolf and two highly skilled hunters.

The teenagers order pizza and watch TV. Chris polishes several of his guns on the kitchen table; Stiles wonders if the reason for that is twofold, when Scott makes sure to put Stiles in between he and Allison.  Stiles gets tired around eight o'clock; he _is_ still recovering from a grievous wound after all, as if his irritating stitches would let him forget. Scott and the Argents promise to stay until Derek gets back, so he goes upstairs to go to bed.

Stiles dreams again.

Cor is at his side immediately, shockingly bright, and they're standing on the nemeton, ready to begin like the 'start' square on a board game. Stiles is crucially aware that this is not a game, that whatever happens in this dream will have real-life consequences in the waking world.

Following Cor's nose, they break through a line of trees and wind up at the school. Realistically, the high school is much farther from the nemeton. Stiles isn't bothering with questioning dream-geography; he imagines this is exactly where he's supposed to be.

They push through the front entrance. The hallways are dark, no one is around.

He doesn't know what he's looking for just yet, so he goes in the first classroom on his right, not really expecting much. He's surprised by what he finds.

There's a symbol drawn on the chalkboard, Celtic looking if Stiles is any judge, a twisting knot with four points like a compass. He's definitely seen it somewhere before… But where?

Cor trots right over to the chalkboard, gets up on his hind legs, and sniffs at it. He woofs lowly and looks back at Stiles.

"Yeah. Okay. I see it. But what does it mean?" Stiles says.

Cor woofs again, a little guiltily this time, as he has no answer for his master.

"Thanks, buddy, that's helpful," he says sarcastically. Stiles rolls his eyes. Clearly neither of them know the significance of the symbol. He doesn't even know what the hell he's supposed to be getting from these dreams or who put the damn symbol on the chalkboard in the first place. To Cor he says, "Come on. Let's see what else we can find."

What they find is that exact same symbol. On every single chalkboard. In every single classroom.

Stiles reaches the last stretch of the first floor and finally hears something.

Chalk on a chalkboard.

Stiles begins jogging toward the sound, believing he'll finally get some answers, if he finds the one behind all this cryptic graffiti.

Naturally, that's when the cloaked figure steps out of nowhere and knocks him flat.

Stiles goes skidding across the tile, wincing when he hits the lockers. Cor charges the attacker, leaping through the air, straight for where a throat should be. The fiend swipes a hand out toward the wolf; Cor goes flying without having been touched. Whatever this thing is it's powerful. And Stiles is positive that it's what's been trying to stop him this whole time, that it's who's behind the sacrifices. That it's trying to keep him from seeing who's writing on the chalkboard.

It's interesting to Stiles that the enemy has actually shown themselves this time. Before it had always been trees or unnatural storms attacking him. Cor gets to his feet, shakes himself, and then bristles beside him. Stiles thinks he might have forced this guy's hand yet again by pulling Cor out of the ground, so it showed up to deal with Stiles itself, head to head—face to face.

Stiles gets to his feet with a fierce determination igniting within him. This bastard has another thing coming.

Stiles runs straight at their opponent, yelling a battle cry. The figure slaps him away easily, again without needing to make contact. But that's exactly what Stiles expected.

Cor is already in position.

"Cor! The hood!" he shouts and knows his companion needs no further instruction.

From behind Cor darts up to snatch the hood from the figure's head.

Stiles looks on eagerly, fully prepared to memorize the face and match it to someone in the real world as quickly as he can. He's not at all prepared for the visage he actually gets.

Stiles gasps when he sees what's under the cloak. A ghastly figure; pale, waxy skin; scars stark on the oblique; lips and eyelids absent.

It's utterly grotesque and utterly _terrifying_.

It stares straight at him for a heart-pounding moment and then it's gone, vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Stiles breathes heavily for a moment, trying to cope with what he's just seen. He doubts he'll find anyone walking around with _that_ face.

Then the steady, scraping sound that triggered this whole confrontation reaches his ears once more.

They're still in there. That _thing_ didn't succeed in stopping him.

With Cor hot on his heels Stiles races to the classroom, flinging the door open with a loud bang, determined to see who's leaving these symbols all over the school.

It's in that brief instant as he passes through the doorway that Stiles receives a flash of memory. That remembers where he first saw that image.

On the roots of the nemeton.

He screeches to a halt. His head whips over to see _who_ is standing at the board. They're back is to him as their hand continues drawing in smooth, even strokes, but it's unmistakable who the culprit is.

It's Lydia.

 


	2. To Ideas

It's Scott that texts Stiles about the third sacrifice the next day. A young girl with brown hair and bangs, found tied to a tree on the running path near the school. It sounds like the third sacrifice from his vision. They appear to be back on track.

Scott also fills him in on the neat, little detail that Lydia is the one who found this sacrifice. Walked right up to her dead body. Without ever consciously meaning to. Duly, after such a shock she's gone home for the day, while the rest of the school remains on red alert.

Derek and the Sheriff frown heavily at the idea of Stiles leaving the house, but that's exactly why Stiles insists on getting out for a little while to go look at the victims at the hospital. He has to get out when he can or they'll _never_ let him leave. Melissa sneaks him into the morgue and Stiles confirms that the first and third are identical to his vision, but the middle sacrifice is not. He wasn't expecting any different, but he felt the incredible urge to see them for himself with his own two eyes. Well. With _someone's_ own two eyes. He waits until they're in the car heading back home to spring going to talk with Lydia on Derek.

Derek protests initially, but Stiles tells him he can stick around, it won't take long. The werewolf drops Stiles off, agrees to parking a few houses down to wait.

"Hey, Lydia," Stiles says, when he enters her room. "Your mom let me in. Uh...How's it going?"

Lydia glares at him. "I assume they told you what happened today."

Stiles nods, grimacing. "Yeah. Yeah, they did. I'm sorry you...had to see that."

Stiles removes the thick sunglasses he was wearing, revealing his red irises, and Lydia's eyes grow huge. "Stiles. Your _eyes_."

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. That's, um, werewolf/witch bond super powers at work. I'm...borrowing Derek's eyesight. Or whatever. Very handy."

Lydia looks at him in something akin to alarm for a beat longer, but seems to accept it in the end. "How nice for you. So. What can you tell me?"

"Uh? About what?" Stiles asks.

"About the body," Lydia answers waspishly. "I assume that's why you're here. To talk to me about it."

"Well, yeah, but...I was hoping it was _you_ , who could tell _me_ something."

"I don't know what you expect me to tell you, Stiles. I don't know why any of this is happening. I just...found it. The same way I found you out in the woods."

Suddenly Stiles remembers something he wanted to check and asks, "Hey. Do you have your notes with you?"

Lydia glances at her bag at her feet and answers cautiously, "Yes. Why? Do you need to copy them?"

"Something like that. Thanks," Stiles says when she hands the stack over.

Stiles begins deftly flipping through them. He finds what he's looking for in the very first one: page after page after page of tree roots.

"Lydia," he begins slowly as he catches her wide eyes stuck on the drawings, "how long have you been drawing this tree?"

"I...I'm not sure..." she says shakily, eyes glued to the sketch Stiles has displayed in front of them. "I didn't...There are so many."

"Yeah. All exactly the same," Stiles says, confirming something to himself. He keeps turning pages looking for his next hunch.

"What is it?" Lydia asks, voice strained.

"The nemeton. That tree where you found me. These drawings were in my dream, too. Leading me to the nemeton like a trail of paper breadcrumbs."

"Why?" Lydia demands suddenly. "I don't… I don't understand what I have to do with this. With _any_ of this. I don't understand what…" Lydia pauses, clearly pulling herself together before continuing in a much calmer tone of voice. "I don't understand what I _am_."

"Hey, we'll figure it out. Whatever is happening, whatever you are, we'll figure it out."

Lydia stares at him, face set in hard lines, before her eyes flit down briefly, then stay glued to the open notebook. She asks, "What's that one _?_ "

Stiles glances down, not even realizing he'd found what he was looking for. The symbol from last night's dream. There's only one drawing in this notebook, but Stiles suspects there might be more in the others.

He swallows thickly. "This was in my dream last night… _You_ were in my dream last night. Drawing this on the chalkboard."

Lydia's face draws in tightly. She glares at the sketch as if willing it to catch fire. Very softly she reveals, "I dreamed I was drawing on a chalkboard last night. I don't even remember what I was drawing, just that I was doing it...over and over and over again. "

Their eyes meet and they both stare uneasily at the other, neither sure what that means exactly.

Stiles, as always, is willing to make a guess though. "So your dream got into my dream last night…? Maybe...maybe whatever your powers are...whatever you are...it's...it's making you... I—I think you want to be heard, Lydia."

Lydia looks at him for a long moment, her terror at not understanding what's happening to her, at what her own body is doing without her permission, growing like long shadows on the wall.

"What…" Lydia stops, swallows down the lump in her throat, forging on. "What am I trying to tell you then?"

"I don't know," Stiles says. "I don't know. But we'll figure it out. Together. Okay? You're not alone in this. We'll figure it out."

Lydia doesn't speak right away, but when she does it's to agree in a gentle voice. "Okay."

They fall silent briefly.

"I felt it, you know," Lydia says abruptly.

"Felt what?"

"Last night...I felt that something was... _wrong_...but I didn't know what and I didn't know what to do about it and then...And then this morning I got out of my car and the next thing I know I'm staring at a dead girl. It was wrong and I knew it, but I couldn't...I couldn't stop it."

"Hey, hey, that's not on you. Stopping this stuff? That's _my_ job. According to the ancient tree anyway. So you, you just pass along the message, okay?"

"Okay…" Lydia says quietly, not making eye contact.

Stiles grasps for something else to talk about.

"So...hey, heard from Jackson lately?" Stiles asks in an attempt to steer the conversation away from the sensitive subject.

Like the idiot he is he picks an even more sensitive subject. Lydia's demeanor wilts a little and she shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly. "No."

Stiles sighs silently at himself. He figures their relationship has evolved enough for him to do this, so he slings an arm around Lydia's shoulders in a sign of comfort and companionship.

He's quiet a minute before he states, "If Derek left...I'd die."

Lydia scoffs, rolls her eyes. "Stop being such a drama queen."

"No, really," Stiles insists seriously. "I'd die. Cor would go mad without him and kill me. I mean...once I get him back and all. I'm not strong enough to control him by myself. Derek...he makes me strong. But you, Lydia...you have never needed Jackson or anyone else to make you strong. You are as strong as they come without needing to lean on anybody for anything. He's gone and you're not dead. And that's something."

Lydia snorts. "Thanks," she says flatly. But then she turns thoughtful and considers all of this with an exaggerated frown. "If I don't need anybody...then why are _you_ here?"

Stiles smiles at her. He shakes her shoulders a little and says, "Because! I am here to remind you that no matter how strong and independent you may be, you never _have_ to be alone."

A smile blossoms across Lydia's face at the words. They're sweet and she appreciates them.

"But if you want me to go, I'll go," Stiles says, dramatically shrugging. "I know you don't really need me to figure all this out. I'm sure you could do it on your own just fine. It's just nice to not have to talk to yourself sometimes, am I right?"

Lydia purses her lips at him, eyebrows drawn down in deep judgment.  

"Not that I do that. Ever," Stiles says, completely unconvincingly.

Lydia is clearly not buying it and she flicks her eyes briefly heavenward. Probably to ask for patience. But she sighs in a full-bodied manner, the kind that clears the residual gunk out of your soul. Then she straightens up, flips her hair, and says haughtily, "Well. I suppose it _is_ nice to have someone to talk to from time to time."

Stiles eyes her from his peripheral and she's doing the same to him with an added upturned nose. Then she leans over and lightly taps their shoulders together, breaking out into a smiling laugh. Stiles laughs, too, and bumps her back. He doesn't know how he got here, sitting beside _the_ Lydia Martin on her bed and joking and laughing and supporting each other. But...he wouldn't trade it for the perfect relationship with her that he had always imagined. All their flaws and all their insecurities are what keep this group together. Because someone in the group is always willing to turn around and fill in your holes with some of their strength. Even the teeny-tiny holes that Lydia has.

Stiles thinks of Derek and how he _literally_ completes a part of him, a part of his heart, his _Cor_ , and thinks, yeah, he wouldn't trade what he has for anything.

 

Stiles stays with Lydia for another twenty minutes, trying to coax her into writing something on a piece of paper using her as of yet undefined abilities. Lydia tells him the psychography is a waste since she's not _psychic_. Sure enough they get no results, but Lydia seems more annoyed than upset about it, so Stiles takes it as a sign that she's feeling less dejected and more determined about the whole thing.

He promises her he'll come back tomorrow after school to try some different methods, then goes out to the Camaro. Derek wants to know what they talked about and Stiles fills him in on the details. He's going to research that Celtic symbol as soon as he done with his lessons for the day.

They make it home in time to have a quick lunch before Miss Blake arrives. She smiles prettily at Derek when he offers to write out Stiles' practice problems for him while they work on math. Stiles only sees that because he forgot to drop the link or put his bandages back on before she came in. Luckily he's still wearing the dark shades, so he keeps them on instead, hating how much it reminds him of Deucalion.

It's because he continues to maintain the link throughout their session that he sees the way Miss Blake is looking at Derek.

Sure. Okay. He gets it. Derek is one fine piece of hotness. And yeah, Jennifer doesn't know he's taken because they lied about it.

But if she doesn't stop making eyes at his man, something very tragic is going to happen with a pencil.

When she leaves, she rests her hand on Derek's arm for a beat longer than can be considered friendly while saying good-bye and Stiles maybe slams the door a little hard behind her. Derek gives him a look full of judgment and Stiles tells him to shut up. The normalcy when Derek wordlessly pecks a kiss on his temple is kind of refreshing; Stiles appreciates that they've managed to get back to this after the root cellar incident.

That night Stiles dives into his research with renewed fervor. He searches for ways to reverse his blindness; he scours methods to test Lydia's abilities; he looks up the chalkboard symbol, the fivefold knot from Celtic lore; he theorizes and extrapolates and correlates and—

He finds something.

Something….something he could use.

 _Life_.

 _Rebirth_.

This… _This_ he can use.


	3. To Any Damn Sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your hats, folks. It's about to get interesting!

Stiles finally has a plan. It's about like the rest of his plans have always been: more than a little on the crazy side and incredibly risky. Despite this he still feels like it's his best option, especially so, when he enters Dreamland that night and receives what he's choosing to take as encouragement.

He dreams of lightning while he slumbers. Hot and electric and devastating. Cor howls victoriously and dances joyously among the bolts that touch the earth, scorching it.

Stiles knows for certain what he has to do.

 

A fourth sacrifice has been committed by the time morning comes. He knows he's running out of time, but still he waits one more night, letting a fifth person be murdered. It's the band teacher, he knows him from the vision and recognizes him from around school. He feels awful about it. He felt awful when he let one of Boyd's ROTC classmates die the previous night. He feels guilty, _responsible_ , for every single one of the deaths that he can't manage to stop. But he doesn't have a way to stop them. He doesn't know how to level the playing field between himself and the grotesque creature from his dreams. So he's forced to keep a stiff upper lip when it comes to the matter of the people he couldn't save.

He's finally found _something_ helpful though and if he can't go on the offense, a good defense is the next best thing. Stiles waits for the days to turn, for his chance to come, crossing his fingers that no attacks come before he can get out to the woods.

In slumber he searches for his foe, but finds nothing Thursday night. They stay hidden from him and Lydia is absent once more, her message apparently received for the time being. Stiles curls up with Cor in the roots of the nemeton, leeching strength from the wolf that he knows he will need tomorrow.

Friday comes and he knows it's now or never.

So he's got to do it _now_.

 

"We're going to work on Lydia's psychic thing or whatever it is. I'll just be with her for a few hours. We'll be fine. Go play with your betas."

Derek lifts is lip in distaste for Stiles' phrasing, but let's Stiles squeeze his hand and smack a kiss on his cheek and get out of the car without protest.

Stiles waves at him as he drives off. He's _pretty_ sure they'll be fine...

 

"Stiles, this doesn't feel right."

"I know, Lydia, I know. _Trust me_ , I know. I basically lied to Derek even though everything I told him was technically true. We _are_ working on your psychic-mojo stuff."

"I'm not psychic, Stiles," Lydia huffs.

"You're _something_. So? Go ahead. Do your thing. Feel any bad omens a-coming?"

The look Lydia gives him is as harsh and perturbed as they come. "No," she bites out acidly.

"Then everything is going to be fine. See? We're learning. And this is totally going to work and not result in any sort of life-altering bodily harm."

" _Stiles_. Seriously. This doesn't _feel_ right. Isn't that part of my "powers" or whatever?"

"I don't know. Do you feel like you did when the victims died?"

"No, I don't feel like something's _wrong_. Just that something's...off."

"Maybe it's because we're sneaking into the woods when we shouldn't be."

"Thank you _so much_ for reminding me," Lydia grits out.

"Just—come on. We're almost there."

Stiles understands Lydia's concerns, but he really needs to do this thing and like _now_ ; he's never felt the pressure of time running out on him quite like this before.

They tromp through the woods a few more yards to come to a stop in front of the nemeton.

"You got the stuff?"

Lydia pulls the sharpie and the folded bit of paper out of her pocket and nods mutely, still staring at the tree, expression a mixture of determination and worry.

"Well," Stiles says, eyes fixed on the stump. He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. "Here goes nothing."

 

"Ow...ow, ow, ow, ow, _ow_! Man, that burns. Ow. But I think," Stiles says patting gingerly at the tender skin of his pectoral. "I think it worked. Huh. Hey, Lydia, how about a hand up?"

Stiles flops a hand in the general direction he remembers Lydia being in. There's no response.

"Lydia?" Stiles says, turning his head to look at her upside down from where he's sprawled across the nemeton.

The girl is standing stock-still, staring wide-eyed into space.

"Shit," Stiles mutters, pulling himself up. "Lydia? What is it? What's wrong? Is it your powers trying to tell you something? Are you getting a...a vision? A premonition?"

Lydia shakes her head minutely. She whispers, "St...Stiles," urgently. The teen finally catches on that she seems to be looking at something past him. He turns.

Six hunters with semi-automatic rifles are emerging from the tree line.

"Oh, _shit_."

Stiles slides off the tree with less agility than he would like to display in front of an enemy. He scrambles over to Lydia and plants himself firmly in front of her.

"Well, well, well," one of the hunters, the presumed leader of this merry, little band, drawls. "What do we have here? If it isn't the Alpha's little bitch."

Stupidly, Stiles sneers back at him. "I believe the word you're looking for is 'witch.' You know what _that_ means, don't you? So _back_ off."

"Nah, we figure you don't have any juice left," the guy says. "That's why you always had a guard around, isn't it? Because you couldn't protect yourself? Hard to get around all those werewolves to get a bead on you, but it seems like our patience has finally paid off. You wandered off, you stupid fuck."

Stiles grits his teeth. He's well aware of how stupid coming out here with Lydia and Lydia alone was, thank you very much. He wasn't _completely_ unprepared for an encounter though. He'd brought a small sack of mountain ash with him that he could use should the Alphas show themselves. He hadn't been counting on _humans_ attacking them. In hindsight he really should have been; the hunters had been too quiet since their initial attack.

He shifts gears, knowing antagonizing them won't help and will, in fact, likely result in exactly the opposite. "Look. She doesn't have anything to do with this. So just let her go and take me."

The hunter laughs. ""Take you?" We're not _taking_ you anywhere. We're killing you, kid. Orders from the top," he says cockily as he levels the barrel of his gun at Stiles.

"Oh, so you're just going to kill a couple of teenagers because some psychotic old man tells you to?"

"Watch your mouth, you filthy wolf-fucker. Or we'll shoot her first."

"I don't think you'll be shooting anyone," a voice comes from off to the left.

Quite suddenly a woman steps up to the hunter nearest her, whips a retractable bo staff out to its full length, and slams one end of it into his jaw.

All in a matter of two seconds.

The man goes down like a stone. Everyone's attention is suddenly on the newcomer, the hunters aiming at her instead of the pair of teenagers.

Stiles takes the only chance he's going to get and yanks Lydia out of the way.

Their mystery woman, meanwhile, plants her foot in the crotch of the next hunter, boxes him about the ears, sweeps the feet out from under another one, then raises her staff behind her neck and spins to knock two more in the face. A few shots go off, but she's fast and she's good; the bullets never hit their mark. A rifle goes flying when her staff whacks it out a guy's hand. He cries out when the other end connects sharply with his nose. A series of precise movements later and the last of the hunters is down for the count.

Stiles barely had time to dive behind a tree in the time it took her to take down six armed men.

Peering out at their savior (who is hopefully not about to attack them next), Stiles gapes at the scene. "Holy crap…" he mutters.

"I know. She's quite good."

The unexpected voice rips Stiles' attention back around to find none other than Miss Marin Morrell standing in front of him.

She continues speaking. "That's why I hired her."

"Why you—what?" Stiles asks, growing more confused by the second.

"Stiles, Lydia, this is Braeden," Morrell says tipping her head to indicate the woman sauntering up to them, who thankfully is collapsing her staff to tuck it away. "She's a mercenary-for-hire and obviously, a very good one."

"That's for sure," Stiles mutters.

Lydia looks shrewdly between Miss Morrell and Braeden. "What exactly do _you_ have to do with any of this Miss Morrell?" she asks with an arched eyebrow.

"Stiles didn't tell you?" Morrell asks lightly.

Lydia levels a glare at him that makes Stiles worry about the possibility of spontaneously combusting.

"I...'m sorry?" he says. "I sort of got blinded the same night I found out, so...yeah."

Lydia huffs. "I _guess_ that's an acceptable excuse."

"Stiles can fill you in later," Morrell says decisively. "Right now I'd rather hear what exactly you were doing out here in the woods, alone, messing with the nemeton, Stiles."

"I'm not alone, Lydia's here," Stiles protests.

Morrell and Braeden both appear less than amused at his dumb-act.

"Okay, fine. So I gave the werewolves the slip. But I...I needed to do something that I didn't think they would let me do, so…"

"That much is clear," Morrell says disapprovingly.

"Hey. Don't judge, Miss Playing-Both-Sides. I think. I hope..." Stiles says, ending a lot less adamantly than he began. He's still really unsure about where Miss Morrell stands.

"I'd be grateful to her, if I were you, kid," Braeden says. "She's had me pull your pack's asses out of the fire more than once."

Stiles frowns. _He's_ never seen this woman in his life before she stepped out of the trees and kicked everybody's ass five minutes ago.

Then his mind makes the logical correlation between "mysterious woman" incidents number one and number two.

"You were the one who saved Isaac!" Stiles exclaims.

Braeden grins. "He _is_ the clever one," she says to Morrell.

Morrell doesn't crack a smile. She's too preoccupied staring Stiles down, arms crossed over her chest and mouth a thin line.

"Clever, yes. But not always smart. _Don't_ wander away from the pack again, Stiles," the emissary warns.

Stiles wonders exactly what she knows about what would happen if he did. He doesn't dare ask though.

"Okay," he says, feeling a hasty exit would be appropriate right about now. "Thanks for the save. We'll head home now."

"And best you stay there," Morrell says.

"Be seeing you, Stiles, Lydia," Braeden says slyly.

Stiles and Lydia hurry off as fast as their feet will carry them.

Morrell and Braeden watch them go.

When they're out of sight, Braeden says, "They're going to get him tonight, aren't they?"

Morrell nods slightly. "Most likely. But there's nothing we can do about it. I can only get away with so much. We'll just have to hope Stiles has a plan." Her eyes travel over the forms of the unconscious hunters, sharp and deadly. "There is something we can do about _these_ nuisances though."

"I have to agree," a third voice comes from behind them.

They glance back to see who's joined them, though they're both already well aware before laying eyes on him. The new addition to their pow wow's expression is serious and his eyes are as unforgiving as Morrell's as they pass over the hunters.

"They've become too much of a problem," he declares. "I think it's time for us to act."

"I couldn't agree more," Morrell says.

"Point me in the right direction and I'll shoot," Braeden chips in, cocking a hip.

Morrell shakes her head. "No. I think this is something we should handle ourselves. Subtly."

"Seems we're in agreement again," Deaton says as he meets his sister's hard gaze. "I have just the thing."

 

Stiles isn't really sure Lydia should be driving right now.

He doesn't exactly know how to tell her that though, so he keeps his mouth shut and prays they don't crash and die. That would be a hell of a way to go, all things considered.

Lydia, understandably, is very upset. She was left out of the information loop _again_ , she _still_ doesn't understand her powers, she was almost just _shot_ to death by hunter-minions, and _pretty much all of that_ is Stiles' fault.

"I can't _believe_ you," she hisses through her teeth, seething. "You drag me out into the woods for secret magic mumbojumbo rituals, you almost get me shot, and you can't even think to tell me that the _guidance counselor_ is working with the Alphas."

"Technically, she's working _for_ the Alphas, I think," Stiles points out and receives a blistering glare for his trouble. "Right, not important."

"Stiles, just—" Lydia cuts off and takes a calming breath. "Just include me, okay? In everything. Not just when you need someone to secretly drive you out to the woods. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry. I guess I'm still just...trying to protect you from all this," Stiles admits.

Lydia pulls up in front of her house and casts a sympathetic look at him. "That's sweet, Stiles. But I think it's too late for that."

A flash of movement in front of the car catches Stiles' eye, but he's still in the process of turning to look, when a hand suddenly punches through the front windshield and rips it right out of its frame.

"I'm going to have to agree with Miss Martin," a smug, British-accented voice says.

Stiles lowers his arms from where they covered his face to see Deucalion standing at Lydia's bumper. Ennis is to his right, discarding the crumpled windshield, and Kali is to his left, looking dangerously pleased. A glance at Lydia confirms that she's staring on in horror much the same as Stiles is.

Deucalion smirks widely as he finishes his thought. "It's much too late for that."


	4. To Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, Merry (early) Christmas to you all! And to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Holidays! And to those of you who don't celebrate anything at all, A Wonderful Winter! 
> 
> Much love to you all in this season of family and friends. My life would be much less bright without all of you in it!

Both Derek and Scott are probably never going to speak to Stiles again.

He went off on his own _without_ any supernatural backup and _without_ telling anyone and went and got himself kidnapped. _Again_.

Only this time he brought Lydia with him and got her snatched too.

He is such a screw-up.

They're in the old distillery that's been closed for years. Bound with duct tape, arms crossed over his middle as if he were wearing a straightjacket, Stiles can't move his hands at all. Plus he's tied to a chair; he can really do little more than turn his head, a fact which is deeply infuriating when Deucalion compliments him on his sunglasses.

All five of the Alphas are there and Lydia shoots constant looks of fury and betrayal at the twins. Ethan and Aiden dutifully ignore her. Lydia is thankfully less restrained than Stiles is, simply tied to a chair the good old-fashioned way with a rope around her middle and her arms at her sides. She hasn't said a word since they were taken and Stiles is a little worried about her. On the surface she's keeping a stiff upper lip, but he knows Lydia better than that by now to know that she's actually terrified.

Stiles makes a last ditch effort for them letting her go, but they're not biting. Well. Not metaphorically anyway. Literally? It looks like Kali would be more than happy to take a chunk out of Stiles' hide.

Deucalion on the other hand is having a spectacular time listening to the sound of his own voice.

"I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to find a way around your blindness so quickly," he tells Stiles. Coming forward, he slides the glasses from Stiles' face, tilts his own down the bridge of his nose to peer at him, red on red. "Impressive. Using Derek's Alpha powers to aid you until you could achieve a more permanent solution."

Stiles bares his teeth at Deucalion. "Wanna see what else I can borrow from Derek? Come a little closer and I'll show you."

Deucalion smirks, amused. "Patience. There will be time for that yet, Stiles."

 

Derek pulls up in front of the Martin home and immediately notices something is wrong with Lydia's car. He jumps out of the Camaro and rounds the front of the vehicle to find that the windshield has been ripped clean off by no doubt supernatural strength.

He can smell that the Alphas were here; three of them. He jerks out the little note left for him under a windshield wiper. It reads:

_The abandoned distillery. Posthaste. Bring your pack._

Derek crumples the paper in his fist, vibrates silently with rage for a beat before tilting his head back and letting out an unbelievable roar.

 

Even with their human hearing and the distance from the nice part of town to the rundown part of town, Stiles and Lydia both hear the roar.

"Oh my god…" Lydia breathes out shakily.

Stiles, who knows it was Derek, looks sharply at the Alphas.

Deucalion smiles in return. "Seems Derek found our little note. Won't be long now."

"What's your play, Deucalion?" Stiles asks. "Are we just bait? Collateral? Bargaining chips?"

"Perhaps you're a little of all three," Deucalion says, simpering. "I guess you'll just have to wait to find out."

 

Derek's pack comes running when he calls. He would almost marvel at it, if he still had the capacity to feel anything other than fury.

They're all there: Erica, Isaac, and Boyd; Cora and Peter; even Scott and Allison.

"The Alphas have Stiles and Lydia. They're holding them at the old distillery."

Peter arches a brow at that; he's the only one among them who understands the significance of the location to the Alpha Pack.

"What's the plan?" Erica asks, furious and beautiful.

Derek shakes his head. "They have hostages. There is no plan until we find out what they want in exchange for them."

"And when we can't give it to them?" Boyd asks seriously.

"We fight," Derek says. "Priority is getting Stiles and Lydia out. Scott, I want that to be your focus. Cora, back him up."

The duo nods to Derek.

"With all due respect, nephew," Peter drawls, "I'm not exactly up to fighting speed just yet. I've barely been alive two months after all."

Derek gives him a steady look, then says, "Wait outside the distillery. When Scott gets Lydia and Stiles free, he'll pass them to you. Get them out of there."

"That I can do," Peter agrees easily.

"Should we call the Sheriff?" Scott asks.

"Or my dad?" Allison tacks on.

Derek shakes his head. "No. This fight is going to be...messy. I won't risk them. Allison, it's not safe for you either."

"I'm aware, Derek," Allison says without a trace of sarcasm in her voice. "But Lydia is my best friend and Stiles is important to me, too. There's no way I'm sitting this out."

Derek figured as much, but he thought he'd put it out there. He dips his head in acquiescence. "In that case, Isaac, help her get somewhere up high, so she can see the field."

Isaac exchanges an affirmative with Allison.

"All right,” Derek says, “let’s go.”

 

They descend upon the abandoned distillery like a dark cloud, riders on the storm, War brought to life.

Derek kicks the door in and they pour into the dusty facility, wordlessly fanning out behind the Alpha. Scott, Allison, and Isaac are to his left; Cora, Erica, and Boyd are on his right.

Stiles and Lydia are immediately apparent, just a few scant yards in front of them, restrained in chairs. They seem so close, but between here and there is a wall of Alphas as impenetrable as a medieval fortress is to a stick.

Deucalion stands to the rear, just a foot of space between him and his captives.

"Derek," he says, an insufferable smirk tainting his mouth, "how nice of you to join us."

"I'm not here for games, Deucalion," Derek says. "Let them go. Now."

"There you go again, making demands as if you have any right to," Deucalion says.

"You're in _my_ territory--uninvited--taking _my_ pack members--repeatedly. I have _every_ right to make demands."

"We came here on peaceful terms, Derek. We only want you to join us," Deucalion argues mildly.

"That again?" Derek sneers. "Never."

"I think you might change your mind, when it's the life of your mate on the line."

Terror seizes Derek at the casual declaration. He uses every ounce of his iron self-control to keep it from showing on his face. Only a blip in his heartbeat gives him away.

"Do you see now why I've brought you and your entire pack here?" Deucalion asks. "You refused to bend at the vault when the penalty was the life of your sister. And you got lucky when your little emissary came to save you all. But now, Derek? Now everyone is here. There is no one left to come running to your rescue."

"What's your point?" Derek snaps.

"My point is you're out of options, Derek. But I'm willing to offer you a deal," Deucalion says. "We're going to kill Stiles here--"

Derek drops lower, snarls, snaps his teeth viciously.

"--but if you kill all of your betas and join us, we'll let you do the honors," Deucalion concludes, as if he were some benevolent king.

"What the hell kind of deal is that supposed to be?" Derek spits.

"Do you know why I chose this location, Derek?" Deucalion asks, completely out of left field.

Derek doesn't deign to answer. Naturally, it doesn't deter the other Alpha.

"This is the very place that your dear mother and Kali and Ennis and myself met with Gerard Argent years ago. Trying to establish a peace. Do you know what came of those talks?

"Gerard Argent blinded me." He dips his chin down, indicating the doorway. "Just beyond that door."

Derek doesn't respond, still waiting for the damn point.

"That was when my life changed, Derek. When I finally saw the truth. Do you understand now?

"Derek, I want you to see the truth too. It's why I've brought you here."

"You brought me here because you have a penchant for dramatics," Derek snaps. Stiles wishes he could give him a high five. "I already see the truth, Deucalion. It's that you're a power-crazed _madman_."

"Such harsh words. But, really Derek," Deucalion says in a patronizing tone, "we're doing you a favor here. Surely you must be aware of the kind of monster he's going to become."

"What," Derek says.

"What?" Stiles repeats.

Deucalion casts a pitying look over his shoulder at Stiles. "You don't even fully understand the consequences of your actions with the nemeton. Do you, Stiles?"

Stiles goes rigid; he's suddenly very nervous. If Deucalion knows what he's done, then he probably knows a way around it. If that's the case, then Stiles' last resort just became little more than a stepping stone for Deucalion.

Derek notices his mate's unease, though he admits he doesn't understand it. Stiles couldn't have possibly done anything with the nemeton, he's been under constant surveillance since his initial contact with the tree. That is, except for this afternoon when he was _supposedly_ at Lydia's.

"What are you talking about?" Derek demands, instead of jumping to conclusions.

Deucalion turns smug. "You don't know? Why, Derek...it's your beloved Stiles, who is behind the ritual sacrifices plaguing this town."

Wait, _what?_

Derek's mouth actually falls open; Stiles' mirrors it. It's almost comical except the situation is far too dire to actually find anything about it funny.

"No, he's _not_ ," Derek says.

"No, I'm _not!_ " Stiles echoes, face morphing into disbelief. "What are you _on?_ Werewolf meth? You think _I'm_ the sicko murdering people for power? As if!"

Deucalion gives him a rather degrading look of false sympathy. "Stiles, please. As if you didn't have every motivation to do such a thing. I know you were upset about being blinded, but sacrificing fellow human beings to gain enough power to heal yourself? Tsk, tsk. It's just dreadful."

Stiles' mouth opens and closes a few times mimicking a fish. "E-excuse me?!" he shouts in outrage, straining against his ropes. "Are _you_ really going to talk about the morality of killing people to gain power, Mister Kill-Your-Whole-Pack-And-Become-A-Super-Alpha? Because you can shove it!"

"My deeds can't even measure to that of a darach," Deucalion says simply.

"A what?" Stiles asks, latching onto the word.

"You really don't know anything," Deucalion says, following with a sigh. "You're a dark druid, Stiles. It's called a _darach_."

"No, I'm really not," Stiles says, thinking that he's not even a "light" druid.

"Because I should believe you," Deucalion says sarcastically.

"Stiles isn't the one committing the murders," Cora says tersely. "He's been under constant watch since you blinded him."

"Oh? Even the night he disappeared from his hospital room?" Deucalion challenges.

Everyone seems to do a mental double-take at that. Eyes are furtively casting glances at Stiles--wondering.

"Come on, you _cannot_ be serious!" Stiles says. "I would _never_ do that!"

"You wouldn't," Scott says. _Thank you, best friend_. "He wouldn't," Scott repeats to Deucalion. "It's not Stiles."

Deucalion's hands come up to offer a placating gesture. "Believe what you will. I however am not taking the chance that you are all blindly misplacing your trust in your packmate nor am I willing to wait around for him to complete the ritual. He dies. Tonight."

Stiles' nostrils flare.

Derek flicks his claws out and lowers his head. A deep growl rumbles in his chest. "Over my dead body."

"It doesn't have to be like this, Derek," Deucalion says as the other four Alphas shift into battle stances.

"I kind of think it does," Derek says.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Derek rushes Deucalion, but he doesn't get very far before Kali slams into him. They go tumbling across the floor, right past the twins, who are already moving to morph together.

"Isaac!" Allison calls, running toward him, bow hooked over her shoulder.

Isaac doesn't have to be instructed to lace his hands together and provide the boost the huntress needs to launch onto one of the metal cylinders. She latches onto the rim and gracefully swings herself into an upright position. Her bow is drawn in an instant and she plants an arrow in the chest of one of the rapidly combining twins. It does the trick. The twin she hit, Ethan, she thinks, splits apart from his brother and collapses onto the floor. Aiden is too shocked to do anything about Isaac charging at him and he goes down like a sack of potatoes when the beta tackles him.  

Erica and Boyd are double-teaming Ennis. The goliath tosses them easily, but each time he gets one of them off, the other one is there, digging their claws in, to his back, his thigh, his shoulder. It's keeping him occupied, even if it's not keeping him down.

Allison runs a distraction for Scott and Cora to get past Deucalion. The Alpha knocks the arrow aside using his cane with a skill that a samurai would admire. He smirks at the archer before turning and tripping Cora up. That had been the plan all along though and Scott takes the opening and slides past Deucalion and up to Stiles.

"Lydia, first!" he says and Scott complies, slicing at her ropes with his claws.

Meanwhile, Derek and Kali are almost literally rolling around the floor in their scuffle. Derek is barely holding her off. He's not in his right mind with his mate's life on the line, not in the mental state to focus on a fight. In a flash she gets the better of him, hooking an ankle around Derek's and tipping him off balance. She strikes while she has the opportunity, scaling the wall before dropping down on Derek's chest. The grotesque claws of her feet go straight through the thin skin and corded muscle. Kali grins gleefully as she watches Derek's face contort in pain. To top it off she effortlessly stabs one clawed finger into Derek's throat, puncturing his voice box. With a flourish she kicks off of him, dragging her claws through his chest before doing an aerial backflip to land perfectly on her feet.

As Derek sinks down to his knees, his eyes find Stiles. Stiles looks over at him as if on cue and his face wilts in fear, as blood bursts out of Derek's mouth in a violent, messy cough.

"Almost there," Scott says in front of him, working through Stiles' bonds. Lydia's on the other side of him frantically trying to pull the duct tape off of his arms with little success. "Got i--"

Scott doesn't get to finish his sentence as he's suddenly flung away. It's Deucalion and he looks furious. He's on Scott in an instant, pummeling him in the face until the teen stays down.

Cora is bloody and staggering, but she pops up in between Stiles and Lydia all the same. It startles Lydia, whose face is already streaked with tears, wet eyes pleading with Cora to _do something_.

"Take Lydia!" Stiles commands, shimmying his ropes off. "Go!"

Cora grabs Lydia by the wrist and starts racing them toward the exit without question.

To their left Ennis grabs Erica and Boyd's heads at the same time and cracks them together like two coconuts. Erica goes down, out cold. Boyd crumples, but catches himself on a hand, barely holding on to consciousness. Ennis lifts a foot to stomp on Boyd's skull, but Allison plants an arrow in his knee, successfully toppling him before he gets the chance.

To their right Ethan has joined Aiden again and together they each grab an arm and run Isaac back into the cylinder Allison is standing on, hard enough to dent it. It's also forceful enough to rattle Allison's perch. As Isaac slumps to the ground, Allison tips over the side. A startled yelp escapes her lips and then she hits the ground with a sick thud.

Lydia halts so suddenly she slips out of Cora's grasp briefly. Cora is quick to grab ahold of her again, tugging her along.

"Allison!" Lydia yells, because the girl hasn't moved.

The twins set their sights on the pair of girls, moving fast. Cora shoves Lydia toward the door and yells, "Find Peter! Run!" turning to hold off the twins.

Halfway between them and Stiles, Kali slides a hand into Derek's hair and yanks his head back. "It's all over now, Hale," she sneers in his ear. Derek looks up at her mutely, unable to speak, lungs pushing blood up his throat to fill his mouth and spill out down his chin in stuttering gasps.

Lydia is only a few steps from the door, but she stands frozen in horror as she watches Ethan slice the backs of Cora's ankles and Aiden punch her in the jaw taking her down.

Stiles finally fumbles the last of the ropes off his feet and stands from the chair, wobbling slightly because his arms are still trapped against his torso. "Lydia!" he yells and the red-head's attention snaps to him.

Deucalion's head comes up from where he's crouched over Scott, ruby eyes zeroing in on the red-head.

"Lydia, run!" Stiles screams.

Lydia's eyes meet Stiles' and it takes him aback when what he sees there isn't fear. He sees a sort of displaced, far off look, like Lydia is looking beyond what's merely in front of her. For one horrifying second Stiles thinks she's had a mental break.

That theory goes out the window when her brow crinkles just before she peels her lips back and screams at the top of her lungs.

Everyone left conscious flinches at the shrill sound, covering their ears if they can. The wail dies down and Lydia snaps back to herself, even more horrified than before due to the appearance of her strange wail.

Deucalion smiles slowly, the sight making a shiver run down Lydia's spine.

"A banshee," he says. "How poetic."

 _Banshee_. The word resonates deep within her. The girl finally knows what she is, what the reason behind her episodes is. But at what cost?

Lydia looks at the Alpha, trembling, afraid of the answer.

"Do you know what a banshee's cry means, Miss Martin?" Deucalion asks, straightening into a standing position. Below him Scott spits blood and coughs off to one side.

Lydia is too shaken to do more than shake her head in small jerky movements.

The malice with which Deucalion reveals her purpose is something that will probably haunt Lydia Martin for the rest of her life. A dark smile spreads across Deucalion's lips, menacing and mean, as he replies:

"It means someone is going to die."

 


	5. To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! 
> 
> As you know, tomorrow is the last day of the year! And as I will be partying (read: watching cartoons, playing Cards Against Humanity, and eating cookies) with my friends, I will most likely be unable to post much of anything. So that means you're getting this chapter a day early! Lucky you! Consider it an early New Year's present~ (If it can be called that). :D
> 
> Happy New Year's, everyone! May 2015 be filled with stuff you love~! 
> 
> Kisses and best wishes!

Deucalion is looking at Lydia, smiling—triumphantly, one might say.

It's the surest sign they could ever possibly receive to signal their loss.

The Alpha of Alphas strolls ever so casually over to where Stiles is standing dumbfounded, eyes stuck on Lydia.

Stiles jerks when Deucalion reaches for him, a hand sliding around his throat and reeling him in. Deucalion's grip forces him to his knees, keeps his head tilted to bare his throat.

Lydia is frozen in place, tears streaming down her face. She's stunned by the weight of her power, the death wail that she possesses. The dreadful omen that means her friends are going to die here tonight.

"No…" she whispers, refusing to believe it, even though she's already surrendered inside.

"I'm afraid a banshee doesn't get to decide," Deucalion says. "But really—thank you. For the announcement. Now let's see. Who shall go first?"

Stiles jerks, tries to struggle, but the grip on his throat tightens and he chokes.

Blood burbles out of Derek's mouth as he tries to say something, busted vocal chords failing him. Kali sneers at his pathetic attempt and yanks his head back by the hair again.

Ennis is in front of the doorway suddenly, blocking the only way out. Lydia stumbles away from him fearfully, dropping to her knees in between Allison and Cora, who are both still unconscious, but, when Lydia checks, both still thankfully alive.

But for how long?

Deucalion's dark, crimson gaze scans the room and his eyes land on Boyd, fighting to keep himself upright.

"Ah, yes. You'll do nicely."

The twins and Kali move without a word; Ethan and Aiden grab an arm on either side of Derek, while Kali stalks over to drag Boyd toward them.

Scott from his position prone on the floor grunts out a weak, "Stop…"

It's ignored.

"Stop it!" Lydia sob-screams.

That goes ignored too.

Stiles tries struggling out of Deucalion's grip one last time, though the Alpha disregards him as well. Even when he says, "Let all of them go and just kill _me_. Just take _me!_ ”

"Stiles, no!" Lydia begs.

Boyd's weary eyes find Stiles', the slightest glimmer of gratefulness in them, even if it’s overshadowed by the still resignation there.

"C'mon, Deucalion," Stiles tries again. " _I'm_ your _real_ problem here. _I'm_ the darach. Just kill _me_ and leave the others alone.”

Derek pulls against the twins. He's trying to speak again, trying to interfere, trying to stop this _madness_.

Deucalion doesn't pay him any mind, eyes affixed to Stiles' face. Stiles manages to ignore the feeling of Derek's beseeching eyes on him. He can’t look at him. He’ll break, if he does and he _can’t_ do that; this is his last shot.

"Patience, Stiles," Deucalion says, when he jerks on Stiles' neck to cease his squirming. "You'll be last, but your turn will come soon enough."

Stiles stops struggling. He doesn't know what good it would do if he did get away from him. He screwed up everything by getting kidnapped and he can't do anything to stop the Alphas now. He's going to watch every single one his friends die right in front of him.

_There's nothing he can do._

Bored with Stiles' bargaining, Kali says to the twins, "Hold him."

Ethan and Aiden move to each manipulate one of Derek's arms. He struggles, but it only causes him to cough up more blood, flecking the floor with it, helpless. The twins dig their claws into Derek's forearms, squeezing. The pain brings out the change in Derek and he roars as his eyes charge red and his fangs lengthen and his claws protrude. Sharp and deadly they stand stark on the tips of his fingers as the twins hold his arms out.

Kali smiles evilly and hauls Boyd up by the back of his jacket.

Stiles' eyes widen; he can feel Derek's tremors through the bond as tries to resist—

The bond.

That's it.

_The bond._

It's the only way.

"Derek!" Stiles shouts, causing everyone to pause at the unexpected outburst.

Stiles locks eyes with Derek. His back is ramrod straight and his gaze steady. He looks wholly resolute in his belief: he can stop this. He knows how now. Firmly, he says, "Trust me."

Derek freezes when the words catch him off guard. But his expression softens as he realizes that Stiles is asking for Derek's permission. Just as he promised he would.

Stiles looks for Derek's answer, always in those telling, hazel eyes, and finds himself more in love with Derek than he even thought possible, when he sees it. It's a yes. An unflinching, unwavering, unbelievable yes. Stiles will take it for all it’s worth.

He shuts his eyes tight and focuses on what needs to happen.

"Lot of good _that_ will do you," Kali sneers and quite unceremoniously drops Boyd onto Derek's claws.

Derek takes in a quiet, shuddery breath.

The squelching sound of pierced flesh carries through the silence of the room as loud as a gunshot.

The wet warmth never comes. That's confusing because Derek can smell the blood in the air. Yet his hands stay dry and Boyd's heart keeps beating strong.

The beta looks down at where Derek's dull, human fingers are pressing into his abdomen, face a mask of shock. Derek's eyes follow him down and meet the sight with awe. His claws are gone. His claws are _gone_. He looks up at Boyd's face, relief and gratefulness there in both their expressions. He just almost manages a shaky smile.

A sharp gasp rings out, pained and broken. Kali, Ethan, and Aiden—Derek and Boyd, too—look among themselves confused. The noise wasn't from any of them. However, it doesn't take long for them to figure out who it did come from.

It came from Stiles.

All heads swivel over to the teen knelt awkwardly on the dirty, concrete floor. It's a beat before anything becomes obvious.

A blot of red blooms across Stiles' t-shirt, spreading downward, down. The source of it appears to be beneath Stiles' arms, underneath all the duct tape still twisting them around his torso.

Derek can't accept what he's seeing. This can't be happening.

There's blood leaking out of Stiles' body. Derek doesn't understand. It's _blood_ and Derek _doesn't_ _understand_.

More and more red gathers as the seconds tick by.

Deucalion lets go his hold on the teen, backing up and circling him to get a better look; it's a small consolation that he appears to be just as lost on what happened as everyone else.

Stiles chokes a little, gasping when he spits up blood, indicating some artery leading to his lungs has likely been severed. In contrast Derek's injuries are almost sealed-up and he can finally speak again.

"Stiles…"

"D-Derek…" Stiles whispers, then shudders once, hard, like he was electrocuted. 

Kali tosses Boyd aside, turns like she's going to advance, but doesn't, too perplexed to know what to do, when she still doesn't even know what happened. The twins' hold on Derek is stiff, practically frozen in place, as they stare. Lydia sobs, Scott tries to turn over, Erica is coming around.

A fleshy _squish_ is heard from Stiles' direction and the boy shivers.

Derek's claws reappear on his hands suddenly and just like that Derek knows—he knows exactly what Stiles has done.

"No…" Derek says, voice trembling. " _No_."

"S-sorry…" Stiles says thickly.

Derek flings the shell-shocked brothers off of him abruptly, at Stiles' side in a blink. Nobody makes a move to stop him; everyone can hear Stiles' heartbeat slowing down.

"You idiot," he says as he cups Stiles' face in his palms.

"I know…" Stiles says weakly.

"You took my claws," Derek accuses him, voice cracking. "You took my claws, even when you knew what it would do."

"I know...just..." Stiles pants, swaying suddenly. Derek catches him, brings him down to cradle him close.

Vaguely he's aware of Cora, Isaac, and Allison stirring. Vaguely he's aware that every present pair of eyes is on them. Vaguely he's aware of the salty smell that's tainting his senses.

"Trust me…" Stiles says, lips slick with _red_ and parted around obsolete air.

"I do," Derek whispers. "I do."

" 's gonna be...'kay…" Stiles sighs, gaze unfocused.

His eyes suddenly turn back to their usual brilliant amber hue. It's the first time Derek has seen Stiles' eyes their rightful color since the night they were slashed; he didn't realize how much he missed that color until now.

Eyelids fall closed heavily over that color too soon, erasing it from Derek's world permanently. Stiles' mouth falters on one last breath.

His body  goes limp in Derek's arms. 

Everything is over exactly as it began—with a bleeding wound in the side of boy too young for his life to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dooooooooon't kill me!!!


	6. Oh, But I Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! AO3 went down right when I was trying to do this yesterday, ha ha, so better late than never as they say. So without further ado! Here's the chapter you've all been waiting for! Hope it was worth the wait! ;)

If it were pain, it would make sense. Or loss or anger or distress or—anything really. But instead there's nothing. Derek feels nothing.

Looking at his mate dead in his arms Derek is as carved out and empty as his childhood home. He feels thin, like paper, a fragile shell, a lie stretched over bone. Everything that he is has been scraped away; nothing has been left behind in the absence of his mate.

Not even his pack can pull him together. There are quiet sobs and muffled cries coming from behind him where his betas and allies have gathered. They're all conscious now, he thinks. He can hear each of them making a distinct set of noises, from Allison and Lydia's heartbroken weeping to Scott and Cora's unsubtle sniffling.

The Alphas are quiet. He doesn't know why, can't even begin to care. Perhaps they're silently gloating because they got what they wanted after all: Derek is devastated, he won't fight them anymore. They can kill his betas on his own claws one-by-one and Derek won't lift a finger to stop them. He's already lost what's most important; he sees no point in drawing this out any longer. Besides he'll be a worthless Alpha again without Stiles by his side; it would be a mercy to let his betas die rather than suffer under him—more than they already have.

Derek hears a faint tap, the sound of plastic on concrete, the scraping that follows indicating it's Deucalion's cane.

"Well," Deucalion says, a pleased tone to his voice, "looks like Mister Stilinski was rather eager to die."

Derek doesn't respond, hunched over Stiles' body like a gargoyle; lifeless; still.

"He didn't want to die!" Erica snarls through shiny streaks of  tears. "You made him! He did it to save Boyd, because you were going to kill him!"

Deucalion quirks a brow at her. "Rather a waste considering you're all going to die anyway."

"No, we're not," Scott says in a hard-edged tone. His eyes gleam, but he's keeping his tears in check by the sheer force of his rage. "You pissed us off. You're going to regret that."

"You really think you'll stand a chance now?" Deucalion asks. "Because now it's about revenge?"

"No," Boyd says, standing up suddenly, tall and firm. "It's not about revenge. It's about honor. We're going to take you down if it's the last thing we do. Because we're going to do it to honor Stiles' sacrifice."

Lydia's head jerks up from Allison's shoulder without warning. "Sacrifice," she says on a breath.

"What?" Allison asks, lifting her face from where it was pressed into Lydia's opposite shoulder.

"Sacrifice…" Lydia repeats. She hadn't even thought of it in all the chaos, but she realizes it now. "That's right. It was a sacrifice."

Deucalion tilts a weary glare in her direction. "Call it whatever you want, Miss Martin. You're prediction was correct regardless. He's dead."

Lydia meets Deucalion's gaze head on. Her eyes are ablaze with fire and wisdom and fight as she declares, "Not for long."

 _That_ brings Derek's head around. He looks at Lydia, expression fierce.

Lydia catches his gaze and says carefully, "There was a spell…"

Behind her Kali scoffs. "Doesn't matter. No spell a _druid_ did, darach or not, is going to bring someone back from the dead."

Derek is suddenly acutely aware that something is very wrong with Stiles' body. It takes him a few seconds to parse out what exactly; he has to drag his attention away from whatever Lydia is saying for a moment. Stiles' body, it's—it's getting _warmer_. Dead bodies get colder, not _warmer_.

Something is happening.

Lydia gets to her feet in a huff. She crosses her arms, flips her hair, and says, "You've all been wrong this whole time, you know. Calling Stiles a druid, over and over and over again." She says it like it's the most tiresome thing in the world. Then she smirks. "But Stiles _isn't_ a druid."

Everyone is on their feet now. A low-grade static is roiling through the distillery; a charge in the air dances along and brings the hair on their arms to stand on end; an ominous stormy rumble rolls over their heads in a churning sky just beyond the windows high upon the walls.

Lydia's smirk only grows once she's holding everyone's attention. In that moment she's the reigning queen of everything that she was before the supernatural turned her life upside down. She holds her head high and purses her full lips into the disapproving pout of the conceited.

"Don't you know?" she says in a haughty voice.

Derek jerks away from Stiles' body, _burned_. Stiles' skin is hot enough to scald; it's starting to glow hot-ash orange.

Lydia couldn't look more sure as she announces:

"Stiles is a _witch_."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, a clamorous crack of thunder splits the air. Every windowpane shatters in a great creaking roar of burst glass and each person moves to cover their heads. In the next heartbeat a huge bolt of lightning crashes through the empty windows and strikes Stiles square in the heart.

Derek springs back, covering his eyes. The other occupants do the same, flinging arms over their faces and squinting against the bright flash of white-hot light.

As soon as the light vanishes and the last tinkling shard of glass hits the ground, it's all eyes back on Stiles.

Webs of electricity race along his skin in crazy patterns like trains with no tracks. Neon streaks of electric blue twist and surge their way along Stiles' glowing-embers orange skin. His body is smoking, long pillars of gray, reaching up toward the ceiling and curling out through the broken windows. His clothes have all been scorched, barely hanging on to him in tatters, the rubber soles of his sneakers melting into puddles on the ground. The air feels _singed_ , charred with ozone and ash. Everything tastes like burnt metal.

Stiles' hand moves suddenly, plants itself squarely on the ground by Stiles' ribs with a resounding smack. It's reminiscent of a horror movie monster coming to life, all jerky movements and uncontrollable twitches and some combination of fright and wonder on every face.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek calls out desperately, daring to hope.

The other hand moves to mirror its twin on Stiles' opposite side. Then Stiles is sitting up, lungs breathing in air, heart beating away steadily.

His eyes open and there's a strange white brilliance to them that shines out, but fades quickly thereafter. Stiles opens his mouth and plume of smoke is expelled from it. The teen coughs a few times, shoulders shaking, swatting a hand at the smoke to dismiss it.

"Oh my _god_...remind me never to do that again. Man, that was...that was something _else_ ," Stiles says, voice sounding like nuts and bolts in a blender.

" _Stiles_."

Stiles turns his head to look at Derek. His eyes are that beautiful crystal-clear amber again. They focus on Derek's face, _seeing_ again, good as new, set in unbroken, porcelain flesh, all traces of scarred claw marks vanished. Stiles is whole and alive again, born anew in a blast of power and heat and light.

It makes Derek feel fragile. For the first time in his life the werewolf loses all sense of being a powerful predator, a solid wall of muscle and strength, a threat armed with finely sharpened points. Here and now before Stiles, he feels like a crystal figurine belonging to a glass menagerie. And Stiles? Stiles is a sledgehammer.

"Hey," Stiles says, grinning lopsidedly. "Told you to trust me."

Derek's eyes are wide and shocky; his whole body is coiled tight nigh vibrating with unrelinquished joy and amazement. He's .02 seconds away from having Stiles wrapped up in a bone-crushing embrace, when a sharp cry stops him short.

He whips around to find Ennis with a hand wrapped around Lydia's throat. Scott, Cora, and Allison are already moving to interfere, but Kali slides in front of them, barring their path.

She wags a finger at them and clicks her tongue theatrically.

Deucalion chuckles. "Seems I underestimated you after all, Stiles."

"I warned you," Stiles says, upper lip curled into a baring of teeth.

"That you did," Deucalion concedes. "But this doesn't change anything. You being a witch rather than a darach is still only a minor obstacle."

"Wanna bet?" Stiles quips.

His right hand comes around like he's pitching a baseball. What it throws appears to be _light_ , streaking across the air in an arc. It's a strange phenomenon that happens next. The strip of light just _stops_ at a seemingly random point, hovers over the ground, simply doesn't move up, down, or any further forward for a long tick. But then the light fizzles, erupts into lightning, and takes shape.

A wolf stands before them, carved in white energy. It almost resembles a spectre of sorts—if someone plugged a ghost into a light socket.

Derek has to blink to be sure he's not imagining it. It appears he isn't for the vision persists, luminous and alive and _there_.

"Cor…" he whispers, recognizing him even in his altered form. Deucalion's head snaps sharply toward the other Alpha.

Cor—because it _is_ Cor—turns his head toward Derek and yips happily, tongue hanging out in a semblance of a smile.

Derek breathes out one of those incredulous half-hysterical laughs.

His eyes catch Stiles moving out of their corners and his gaze travels over to where the teen is rolling into a kneeling position. He pauses, taking a deep breath. When he rises to his feet, white light begins to circle around him. It cascades over his shoulders, coils around his ankles, shields his bare chest. The light hisses every so often, sparks and jolts and spits little fireworks out like a sparkler candle.

"See that?" Stiles asks.

The answer is clear: the Alpha Pack can't take their eyes off of him.

"That," Stiles says, "is my spark. My energy. My magic. And you better be scared. Because it's awake now. I thought it already was, before, but no...no, that was just a peek at what I could do."

The Alphas' faces are slowly dawning with worry. It causes Stiles' to grin widely and when he does, the white light changes suddenly as if it were volatile. It blooms blue and crackles with an electric buzz. Even more amazingly, Cor does the same.

The wolf's body shifts to match Stiles' energy, both turned to sizzling-hot lightning. Cor crouches to attack, lips peeled back to emit a fearsome growl.

"Lightning," Stiles says casually. "It's the nemeton's favorite element, you know."

Kali snarls, shifting into a low stance, claws at the ready. Ennis glares menacingly and yanks Lydia closer to him. The twins are looking like they regret every decision they've ever made. Deucalion only smirks, but it looks less confident than usual.

"Don't even think about it, kid," Ennis says. "I'll snap her neck before you can make a move."

"I really kind of doubt that," Stiles says.

A bolt of lightning strikes Ennis in the back, summoned from the grumbling storm outside—of which Stiles is clearly the maker.

Lydia yelps as Ennis releases her, his limbs flying out as his body quakes under the attack. Kali does nothing to stop her as the girl quickly dashes back over to the safety of her friends. The she-wolf's expression is twisted in horror as she watches Ennis fall to his knees.

"Ready for round two?" Stiles says.

Another lightning strike comes in through the window. This time Ennis' whole body lights up. His flesh turns translucent as every vein burns bright. Glimpses of bone can be seen beneath flashing skin. The assault ends and the behemoth Alpha is left lying on the floor, a smoldering mass of blackened flesh.

The smell is as awful as the sight. Many of the werewolves and humans alike, cover their noses, their mouths, their eyes.

It's dead quiet after that.

That is until Kali, quivering with rage, releases a roar that rattles the building. She rounds on Stiles, eyes blazing.

" _You_ ," she breathes out.

"Bite me, bitch," is Stiles' reply.

Kali makes to charge him, but Deucalion's voice cuts through the air.

"That's enough," he says, halting Kali's advances, but not without a protesting snarl from the she-wolf. "I think we're done here for now."

"Like hell we are," Stiles snaps. "We're finishing this _here and now_."

"I rather think not," Deucalion says simply, tilting his head to the side.

The other wolves start picking up on it too, heads all jerking in the same direction.

"What is it?" Stiles asks.

"Sirens," Derek says.

" _Shit_ ," Stiles curses. "This is far from over, Deucalion."

"I quite agree, Stiles," Deucalion says coolly.

"Cor, c'mon. Scott, jacket," Stiles says as he powers down. Cor files away into Stiles' body like water disappearing down a drain; Scott rushes to give Stiles his hoodie, so his best friend isn't left standing there buck-ass nude.

Stiles slips it on and before he can even get it zipped, Derek is right there in front of him, a gentle hand on his cheek.

"Stiles…" he whispers.

"I know," Stiles says, gripping Derek's hand with his own. "I know. But right now we've got to get out of here. Please tell me there's a getaway car."

"Peter's waiting," Cora says. "He can take the humans."

"I'm not even human…" Lydia mutters faintly.

Allison grabs her by the arms and ushers her along, saying, "Close enough."

"Cora, go with them. Meet at the loft," Derek says, receiving a short nod in return. To Stiles he says, "I have to…"

"I know. Go. Make sure everyone gets away."

They can all hear the sirens now as they pour out of the warehouse. The remaining members of the Alpha Pack have already made their stealthy retreat, gone into the night.

Peter pulls up to a screeching stop, yelling at Stiles through his open window, "What in the hell did you do?"

"What, I saved everyone's asses! What are you talking about?" Stiles squawks as Cora yanks the back door open and pushes Lydia in.

"Turn around!" Peter snipes. So Stiles does.

"Oh."

There are at least half a dozen trees on fire less than fifty yards away. That certainly explains the sirens.

"Your little light show did that!" Peter informs him.

Stiles cringes. "Oops. My bad."

"Regret later, Sparky. Get in the car," Cora says, shoving him down into the seat.

Allison climbs in last and once Cora is in the front seat, they're off.

Dark shapes move on each side of them, the other werewolves getting away under the cover of night.

A fire engine followed by a police cruiser passes their car and Stiles turns to Allison.

"Hey, my phone is back at Lydia's car...hopefully. Maybe want to text your dad to tell my dad we're all alive?"

Allison just stares at him, still shocked to the core by what she's witnessed. "Stiles. You weren't though."

"Just for, like, a second," Stiles says, waving it off with one hand, while the other hand pulls his borrowed hoodie a little further over his bare lap.

"You died?" Peter asks, quirking a brow at him in the rearview mirror. He seems rather delighted at the notion. Probably because now he and Stiles are _resurrection_ buddies. Oh, _yuck_.

"Stiles," Allison says again, still staring at him meaningfully.

"Yes, okay, I have a lot of explaining to do, but it can seriously wait until I'm wearing pants!" Stiles clamors.

Cora snorts.

"No remarks from the peanut gallery," Stiles snaps. He notices the last occupant of the car being strangely quiet and turns to look at her. "Hey, Lydia! How ya holding up?"

Lydia rolls an incredibly cross look over at him. "I'm a banshee. How do you think I'm holding up? Super glad you're alive B.T.W."

"Oh, a banshee," Peter says jovially. "How wonderful."

"Did you know?" Lydia snaps at him.

Stiles gasps scandalously. "You _did_ , didn't you?"

"I did not," Peter says, offended. After a protracted pause, he admits, "I mean, I knew you were _something_."

Lydia looks murderous, Cora looks unimpressed, and Allison _still_ looks shell-shocked.

"All right, you know what?" Stiles says. "No more talking for the rest of this car ride. Just drive."

"As you wish," Peter hums.

There's a strange, uncomfortable silence before Stiles says, "Allison, seriously though, text your dad."

"Right," Allison blurts and fumbles her phone out of her pocket. She pauses. "Uh, Stiles. Maybe you should just call your dad."

Allison passes the phone over warily. Stiles takes a gander at about fourteen messages starting with "What was that roar about?" then, "Allison, do you know where Stiles and Lydia are?" progressing to "Where are you?" and ending with "Allison, this is the Sheriff. Call me IMMEDIATELY."

Stiles grimaces. "Your dad and my dad being friends is not a good thing."

Allison winces in sympathy.

Stiles braces himself for the phone call of a lifetime.


	7. Oh, But You'll Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry! God this is sooooo much later than I was planning, but my job has had me pulling double duty working on things for my office and the Denver one now! Hopefully it'll only be two more weeks or so of this craziness!!! But fair warning, if I don't post for a while again, you know why. (Somebody save me, PLEASE ;_; ).
> 
> Anywhooo~ Here's the last chapter for this part right here. This time around we're gonna have a little fun and then we're gonna have a little murder (so still fun, yeah??). ;D

The conversation with the Sheriff goes about as well as expected. Stiles has to assure him no less than eight times that everyone is alive and well and that he'll get the full story tomorrow. Stiles has to then pass the phone back to Allison so she can speak to her own father and, judging by the look on her face, she doesn't fare any better on the parental front.

The bright side is that Stiles' dad agrees to let him stay at the loft tonight.

Stiles makes it about two steps into said loft; the next second Derek's arms are around him in an flash, squeezing the life out of him—metaphorically, of course.

"Stiles," Derek gasps.

"I know, Derek. I know," Stiles says, squeezing Derek back. "I'm so sorry it went down like that. I was going to tell you about the spell, I swear, but we sort of got ambushed before I could."

"Stiles, you were _dead_ ," Derek says, pulling back to look at him. "I heard your heart _stop_. I felt it when you…"

"I know, god, I'm sorry, I know," Stiles says, wrapping him up in another hug. "Lydia and I did the spell this afternoon as a sort of...failsafe, I guess. Our odds weren't looking so good, you know? I had to face the reality that someone might succeed at killing me. So I made sure I'd come back if they did."

Derek stares at him uncertainly. "You made sure you'd come back…"

"Yep."

"...using a spell."

"Yep."

" _What spell?_ " Derek demands.

"Um," Stiles says, shrinking behind Derek's broad figure as their friends draw closer, "can I get some pants first maybe? Please? Please, _please_?"

"I'm on it," Cora says, disappearing. She returns with sweatpants and a t-shirt a la Derek's wardrobe.

"Thanks," Stiles says, taking them from her. "Ladies, avert your eyes."

Many roll their eyes. Few avert them.

He slips on the sweats first, then unzips the jacket. He's handing it back to Scott, when Derek's hand darts out to touch his chest. "What's that?"

Stiles glances down, sees what he's seeing, and makes a guilty face.

"Oh. That. Yeah, um, that's…"

"The triskele," Derek says, eyes glued to the symbol.

Thick black lines are branded into Stiles' skin in the very clear shape of the Hale triskele...right over his heart.

"Dude, you got a tattoo?" Scott says, goofy and admiring grin on his face.

"No," Stiles says. "Not really. Sort of. I drew it—well, Lydia drew it—in sharpie and I think some magic shenanigans that went on during the spell are what turned it into an actual permanent tattoo." Stiles looks down at his chest, touching the mark curiously. "Huh. Just like the real thing and it didn't even involve needles. Score."

"It was for the spell," Derek says quietly.

"Yeah. I needed a symbol to focus it."

"And you picked the triskele," Derek asserts.

Stiles looks slightly embarrassed. "Well, _yeah_. It's like _your_ symbol and it means "the rise and fall" like you said and it signifies like "spiritual expansion" in Celtic lore and stuff and just...yeah. It fit."

Derek strokes his fingers lightly over the emblazoned crest. "I like it."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks teasingly.

"Please stop," Isaac says, bringing the two lovebirds back to the matter at hand.

Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. "Right, um. So. The symbol. The triskele served as a sort of...like a signature on a contract. A physical sign of the agreement between me and the nemeton."

"The agreement. Between you and the nemeton. Which was…" Derek says, heavy eyebrows working double time.

"Which was: if I died it would count as a blood sacrifice valued at one life that could then be used in exchange for my own life back."

"That doesn't make any sense," Cora says skeptically.

"I know right. But that's where the lightning bit comes in. See, electricity has always been a source of life, right? And I found this spell that was all about how to harness lighting to create life all Frankenstein style and stuff. And I knew the nemeton was totally into lightning because of my dreams and all. So what I did was make a contract with the nemeton: my blood for some life-giving lightning. And voila. I'm alive. It's technically, kind of, sort of cheating, but that's the whole point of the contract with the nemeton is to go through the loopholes. And it's not like the nemeton doesn't get anything out of this." Stiles taps at the symbol on his chest. "We're eternally bound now, the nemeton and me."

Derek rubs a hand over his face.

"Jealous, lover?" Stiles asks with a waggle of his brows. "Don't worry, my body will always be yours and yours alone, even if my soul is getting shared with some other things."

"So what was with the gigantic increase in power?" Lydia asks pointedly. "That wasn't part of the agreement forged with the nemeton _or_ the original spell."

"No, it totally wasn't," Stiles says, grinning boyishly. "Totally an added bonus of dying and coming back to life."

"Meaning?" Boyd asks, brow raised skeptically.

"Meaning my powers were being blocked by something. I think that's what it was anyway. It's hard to describe but the power—the level of energy—that I had _before_ was only a little bit of my "true strength" or whatever. But when I died, whatever had a hold of me? Lost its grip. Basically: I hit the reset button," Stiles say matter-of-factly.

"You...what?" Isaac asks doubtfully.

"Like in a video game," Scott determines.

"Yeah, sort of like in a video game," Stiles agrees. "I was able to start over from the beginning. Wipe the slate clean. Restore to factory settings. It's how I got Cor back and levelled up on the summoning too. No more blood magic."

"So wait," Allison says. "You said something was blocking your powers? What was it?"

Stiles' face darkens. "I don't know. But if I had to guess, I'd say our friend, the darach."

"The darach," Lydia says. "The one sacrificing people."

"The one who's been trying to stop me this whole time," Stiles says. "It would make sense the darach was behind this too."

Derek nods. "He has control of the nemeton and the flow of power in Beacon Hills. It's not a far stretch for him to be able tamper with Stiles' power levels."

"Had," Stiles corrects. "He _had_ control. I'm in the game now. He'll have to fight me for it."

He grins wickedly. Derek returns the smile, smaller, but proud of his mate.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter calls out far too cheerfully from his position slouched on the stairs.

"What, Peter?" Stiles asks without turning around.

"I think you may be interested in what's on your _back_ as well as your front. Just a hunch."

"On my—what?" Stiles queries, turning around to look at him.

When he does nearly everyone behind him gasps.

"Stiles…" Derek breathes out, eyes wide and shocky.

"What, what?" Stiles asks, trying to get a look at his back, which is, as always, impossible. "What is it?"

"It's the nemeton," Lydia says, recognizing it from the drawings.

In fact it looks just like her sketch, but instead of strokes on a paper it's been etched into Stiles' very skin, pinkish-purple lines of scarring branching out from the base of his neck to the bottom of his shoulder blades.

"Holy crap, Stiles," Scott says, mouth agape.

"That looks pretty badass, Stilinski," Erica says, admiringly.

"What _is_ it?" Isaac asks, mildly disgusted.

"I believe it's called a Lichtenberg figure," Peter says smugly. "Happens when one is struck by lightning."

Stiles' flailing abruptly ceases. "Oh," he says. "Guess I brought that on myself then."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stiles...where do I even start with what you did tonight?"

"You don't. You save it for my dad, who will no doubt give me the "reckless and stupid" speech tomorrow. But tonight! I already told him I'm staying here with you and believe you me, there will be little to no talking." Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck and poses like some romance cover damsel leaned against Fabio.

"Oh, god, no," Scott says, covering his eyes.

"I think it's time for everyone to leave," Allison says, eyes large.

"Yep," Cora agrees, looking at the floor and not her brother.

Derek wraps an arm around Stiles' waist, holding him to him, but directs his words at the others.

"Everyone did well tonight," he says seriously, drawing their attention. "You all worked exactly like we planned."

"Aw, he's proud," Stiles coos, stroking Derek's beard.

Derek ignores him. "I want everyone to stay alert though. This isn't over."

He receives nods all around. Once Derek has given them a short, dismissive nod, everyone starts peeling out.

"Staying with me tonight, buddy?" Scott asks Isaac.

"Well, I'm not staying _here_ ," Isaac says.

"Cora, would you like to stay with your dear uncle tonight?" Peter asks.

Before Cora can even open her mouth all the way, Lydia steps up and hooks her arm through Cora's, saying, "Cora's staying with me. Go find another niece to bother. Oh, wait."

"Man, that was cold," Boyd says, chuckling in passing, while Cora smirks at Peter.

"Paying for that one, aren't you?" Allison mocks.

"Children," Peter sniffs.

Stiles and Derek watch them go, everyone tired and worn, but laughing. It's a strange sight.

"I think they're starting to get along," Stiles says softly. "You know?"

Derek grunts affirmatively. "They're becoming a pack."

"Yeah," Stiles says, smiling. "Just maybe. A messed-up, dysfunctional little pack. But a pack. Our pack."

Derek looks into Stiles' face. "Our pack."

Stiles smiles up at him, warm and welcoming. It's a sight Derek thinks he will never tire of. In fact he's certain he won't.

"What say we christen this newly remodeled vessel, hm?" Stiles asks coyly. "I think it needs a few...alterations. Don't you?"

Derek grins slowly. Predatory and infatuated all at once. "I can think of a few places that might need some alterations…"

The werewolf leans in teasingly, only to pull back at the last second, putting Stiles at arms' length.

Stiles blinks, lips still puckered, where they had been ready and willing. "Wha…?"

Derek levels him with a look. "I'd rather talk about you sneaking off to the nemeton today though."

"Oh…" Stiles says, sagging. "That."

"Yes, _that_. How could you go out there without telling anyone?"

"Lydia was there. We were fine," Stiles says. "Even if we did get ambushed by some of Gerard's hunters a little bit."

" _What?_ " Derek snarls.

"Obviously we're fine! Miss Mercenary took them out."

" _Who?_ "

"This badass chick that—Look, I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but please, just for tonight can't we forget about all the people trying to kill us?" Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck again and pleads prettily at him.

Derek frowns, deep like the oceans, and darker still. "Just answer one question."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Did you hide going out to the nemeton from me because you didn't trust me to let you do that spell?"

Stiles looks briefly taken aback by the question. Then he smiles sadly and says, "No. I just didn't want to take you out to the nemeton again after what I did to you there."

Derek's stormy expression breaks away, softening into infinite emotions. "Stiles…"

"Sh. Just don't. We'll talk tomorrow. Please, just...be with me tonight."

Stiles is so sincere in his wish for the simplicity of laying together that Derek is hard-pressed to deny him. He winds up giving in to the earnest request.

"Okay," he says quietly, touching their foreheads together.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers, closing his eyes to freeze the moment in time, however temporarily.

He tilts his head to the side, a perfect angle for lips to meet. Derek presses closer and surrenders to the urge to find Stiles' mouth. It's slow at first, a pleasurable mash of mouths and twist of tongues. It turns heated in the blink of an eye, Stiles' hands sliding into Derek's hair, Derek's arms twining around Stiles' waist.

Stiles gasps for air, head tilted back to reveal the long column of his pale neck. Derek runs his teeth over the stretched muscle, latching onto the taut junction of neck and shoulder. The mark he leaves there will be visible for days. Maybe a whole week.

It delights Derek, man and wolf, to lay such a physical claim to his mate. The warm thrum of echoing magic that Derek feels under his skin lets him know Stiles feels the same. Their pleasure reverberates off of one another's, like a sonorous note bouncing off of cavern walls, but increasing in tone and volume instead of falling away into the dark.

"Bed," Derek mumbles against a mole.

"Here," Stiles insists and that's all it takes for Derek to drop them to the ground.

He catches Stiles' weight smoothly, depositing him gently and then covering him with his body and bulk.

"Stiles…" Derek breathes out like a prayer.

"Derek," Stiles answers like a light in the night.

Then they're rutting against one another, too feverish to do much more than rock into the cradle of hips, sink into the heat of it all. Derek mouths over Stiles' new tattoo, unable to resist the little emblem that forever marks Stiles as a part of Derek's family and pack.

Angels may have wept or the world may have burned down around them for all that the pair cared when they climaxed together without so much as laying a hand to either erection.

When his breath and his wits come about him again, Stiles comments, "What a mess…" His pants are wet and cooling and clinging; his back is bruised and abused and jammed against the floor. It's all rather unpleasant really, or so he thinks it should be.

"I can fix that pretty easily," Derek counters, hand already flicking at Stiles' fly.

"By all means," Stiles purrs and lays back to let Derek ravage him until dawn, if that's what suits him.

It certainly suits Stiles.

 

The door creaks ever so slightly as it opens. It's a rather odd time for the door to be opening. It's nearly midnight.

Gerard suspects foul play immediately. He's not disappointed, when his visitor steps up beside him and he sees who it is.

They're quiet a moment, the pair of them, both looking out the window at nothing in particular.

Then Gerard says, "I suppose I should have guessed it would be you."

"You can't be blamed for forgetting about us. It was never your focus."

Gerard grunts in agreement, nodding slowly.

"So how are we doing this?" he asks.

The intruder produces a vial and a syringe. "Peacefully," comes the reply.

The needle jabs into the porous metal lid, then the plunger draws back to fill the tube with a clear serum, all with a careful clinical hand.

"Not with a bang, but a whimper, then," Gerard says, eyeing the sterile glass.

"It's more than you deserve for all you've done."

"Don't _you_ criticize _me_ for my resolve to _act_ ," Gerard spits. "We both know what's come from your _idle_ hands over the years."

"What I do—what _we_ do—isn't something I would ever expect you to understand, Gerard."

"You mean manipulation? I think I understand that perfectly well," the old man says with a sneer.

"It's hardly manipulation."

"Don't make me laugh. Isn't that _exactly_ what it is, what _this_ is?"

"You've become a danger to everyone including yourself, Gerard. _This_ is for the greater good."

"The greater good," Gerard scoffs. "What about the boy then? Your little witch you've kept from blossoming into something even you can't control? What of him? Will he be _put down_ in the name of the _greater good_ too, once he finally figures out what he's truly capable of?"

"Mister Stilinski will have to be very careful with his choices in the coming days."

"Not that you'll tell him that," Gerard grumbles. "It has to "play itself out"." Isn't that how it goes?"

"What do you care?"

"I don't. I'd love to see him _burn_ ," the hunter hisses.

"I'm sure you would. Are we done with this pointless conversation now?"

"Fine. Just get it over with," Gerard commands.

He sits tall in his wheelchair, still stubborn and proud and self-righteous, right down to the last. The sharp bite of the needle doesn't cause him to flinch. He inhales once, through his nose, and holds it in, one final act of resistant rage. The administrator of his death sentence depresses the plunger with a calm detachment, earned over many years of experience. When Gerard's breath finally leaves him again, a ghostly exhale through slack lips, it's his last.

The tools of death are tucked away neatly, slipped inside a jacket pocket along with the hand that commanded them moments before. Cold eyes stare a moment longer at the corpse that will be found in the morning, seemingly finally expired of old age and illness.

"Good riddance," Deaton says and departs the way he came.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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